


The Consequences of Choices

by MariaPriest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaPriest/pseuds/MariaPriest
Summary: Napoleon is having a difficult time coming to terms with a choice.





	The Consequences of Choices

Illya knows something is wrong with Napoleon when he isn't anywhere in Medical, despite the bedlam arising from so many agents being treated for mostly minor injuries as the result of a successful major mission on Staten Island. 

His own injury, a cut on his chest from a knife-wielding THRUSHie, needed only stitches, the attacker suffering much worse. Now he strides to the locker room where he keeps spare white shirts and black turtlenecks in hopes Napoleon is there cleaning up. He had sustained bruised ribs and a black eye according to the nurse that helped treat him.

Illya raises an eyebrow on seeing a note taped to his locker. The handwriting he recognizes as Lisa Rogers'.

_Jerry says come to the club. NS in one of the back rooms. Not good._

The change of clothes can wait.

Two minutes later Illya is in the Masque Club. Jerry, the bartender on tonight, raises three fingers to indicate the private room the CEA occupies. Illya nods and makes for the room.

He knocks on the closed door. No answer. More knocking. Still no answer. He lets himself in.

The only light in the room comes from the candle in the Chianti wine bottle, enough for Illya to see Napoleon is well on the way to a significant bender with a half-full bottle of 12-year-old Macallan scotch in the driver's seat.

Illya enters the non-surveilled room without an invitation, thankful Napoleon has chosen it because he has a feeling no one should eavesdrop on their conversation. He sits in the chair across the table from his partner. Even though Napoleon avoids looking directly at him, he sees the despair and self-loathing in the familiar brown eyes. It makes his heart ache for his friend.

The only firm acknowledgement that Illya is there is Napoleon withdrawing the premium vodka from an ice bucket and pouring four fingers into a highball glass. He pushes it a few inches closer to Illya before pouring more scotch for himself.

Illya stares at the drink before him. He is not good in situations like this and doesn't know what to say. He thinks it best that he is simply there for Napoleon.

Many tense minutes go by before Napoleon says, "How many stitches?"

Illya looks down at the crimson curtain of dried blood on his dark-gray coverall. "Twelve. There shouldn't be a scar."

"Good. You have enough of those."

"As do you."

Napoleon huffs at that remark. They drop into another long silence. Illya still doesn't drink, though Napoleon has finished his latest pour and is filling the glass again. Illya waits; Napoleon will talk when he's ready.

Eventually Illya's patience pays off. Napoleon whispers, "God help me, Illya, but I'm glad it was him and not you."

Illya finally takes a long gulp of the vodka to buy time while he thinks how to respond to the statement's tone that tells him Chris's assignment and death is eating at his friend's kind soul. How to assuage Napoleon's guilt? Appeal to him emotionally? Use facts instead? He's unsatisfactory with the former, and the opposite with the latter. He decides to go with his strength.

"It was a sound plan. Mr. Waverly agreed. I was needed more as lead of the rear invasion force."

"I assigned you that position so you wouldn't do the demolition."

"Chris is - was a Navy SEAL. He was well-trained and experienced in all aspects of our work. He, Mac, and I practiced for many hours for this mission. Chris was an excellent explosives man. The best for the job."

"But you're better. Hell, Illya, you even spent a few days teaching the BUD/S candidates last year. They even wanted to hire you! A _Soviet_! How could Chris have been the best for this mission with you a part of it? He'd be alive and instead you'd be …" Napoleon chokes on the unspoken word. The candlelight makes his moist eyes sparkle.

"You don't know that. Demolition is inherently dangerous, my friend. You know _that_. So much can go wrong even in optimal conditions. We don't know why the charge went early."

"I _do_ know _that_ , Illya. Don't you understand what I'm saying? I'm glad _one of our own_ is dead! I let my desire to keep you alive affect the mission assignments. It could've affected the outcome, too. I had a feeling during planning that the demolition would go wrong. I put Chris in that position rather than the best person."

Illya understands. It is difficult to accept it, though. No one, not since his family perished in the war, ever valued his life until Napoleon Solo. 

"What would you have done if our roles and skills were reversed? Would you have done the same thing?"

"Yes." No hesitation. It rings true because it is. Napoleon, by saving his life countless times and caring for him when he was convalescing, showed him he was worth being saved, as much if not more than the world. Because of how well they work together, the world stands a better chance of survival with them alive and together, so sometimes their survival comes first, not the mission. They are partners, closer than twins, more than family - another unvoiced reason for many choices made.

"I'm a monster," he whispers, voice quavering, full of self-disgust. His hand tightens to white around his glass. He reaches for the Macallan with the other hand.

Illya quickly covers Napoleon's hand with his, in part to keep from drinking more. The other he uses to gently force the bottle back to the table. "No, you're human."

He holds his breath mentally while he watches a kaleidoscope of emotions play over Napoleon's strong features. They settle into a display of resignation, regret, and relief. He breathes.

Napoleon releases the bottle and places that hand over Illya's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "To absent friends?"

Illya nods. " _Pour les amis absents_."

Napoleon takes his glass with his free hand so he and Illya can keep the reassuring touch they both need. They lift their glasses skyward, beginning the tribute to another valuable life that left the world too early.

the end  
©2018  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CoriKay for the beta.  
> Response to a Section VII challenge with prompts of drink and crimson


End file.
